Stories and happenings in the life of a flight attendant written after my book.
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All photos by Penguin Scott unless noted.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Passenger of the Day: Meltdown

I'm a typical Sagittarius- love
to travel, outgoing, tend to speak my mind, often without fully considering the
ramifications. On my last birthday, I turned 46. I often still feel like I'm in
my 30s; mentally, that is...my body often demands that I'm 46. I have a younger
brother who came to be when I was 9, so I have vivid memories of his younger
years. Being the oldest grandchild, I have numerous younger cousins. Many of my
friends have children and I've been a flight attendant for 14 years, so I have
seen my share of kids and temper tantrums.

I have never seen a meltdown
like this. Ever.

It was a red eye to Newark so
much like any of the many red eyes to Newark I work on a regular basis. The sun
had come up and a few passengers had their shades raised, so it was light in the
cabin. I looked at the display at my jumpseat which showed 22 minutes left of
flight. My flying partner came to the forward galley to inform me that all
though the seatbelt sign had been turned on, a man in row 10 was having trouble
getting his daughter to sit down and buckle up. He snapped at her when she asked
to have the child buckled up. I looked back and saw that he was now going down the
aisle to the aft lavatory with the princess in tow.

I remember them from boarding.
She was a cute thing; blond hair, chubby cheeks, cute lavender-colored shirt.
She was about 3 years old. Dad was about my age, his brown hair beginning to
gray. He was traveling alone with his daughter.

Early morning from the plane

When they came back up the
aisle, she was still unhappy, but not any worse than many kids I see at this
stage of flight. Some have issues on descent with the air pressure hurting their
ears. Others just get bored out of their gourd, or tired, so they act out. I
often find it a little humorous when they have their tantrums. I remember my
brother; he'd go silent as the big scream would build pressure, then he would simply
collapse to the ground like a rag doll, or one of those toys that goes limp when
you press on the bottom of their stand. Then, being the big brother I was, I
would wave my arms in unison to his cries, like a musical conductor. It never seemed to help the situation, but I enjoyed it.

The captain signaled our final
approach and it was time to prepare the cabin for landing. I made my
announcements and then walked back to the cabin to assist in the checks. I got
to row 10 and the little girl was now in full-tantrum mode. Dad, his full
attention on his girl, was struggling to have her sit down and get her buckled
in. I could tell I didn't need to say anything, so I didn't. I observed for a
moment and let him know I was there in case he needed anything. He barely
regarded me, as he continued to struggle with her.

I could see them quite well
from my jumpseat. What's worse, I could hear them as well. Actually, not them,
but her. She screamed in a gravelly voice of a little girl. Her vocabulary for
this meltdown was limited; basically just, “Let me go! I need to pee,” (which she
was making up) “No! I don't want to!” and, “I want to go!” People around managed
to mostly ignore the tantrum, but every now and then I could see a smirk. Sure,
I felt badly for the dad, but it was a bit humorous.

As we neared the airport, the
meltdown went into hyper-mode. We were about 1500 feet from the ground and she
was now standing in her seat. Her head bobbed from side to side as her hands
went up and down as if she were beating an invisible drum. (I think I saw her
eyes roll back and green vomit spill forth.) She began to hit her father, who
was taking it all very well, but was looking worn and tattered. His calm was
waning, but he calmly answered her cries and tried to sweet talk her into sitting in
her seat.

Suddenly, I could no longer see
her, and Dad had moved into the window seat, where she had been standing. I
could only see the top of his head, which was directed towards the wall. It
appeared that he was holding her in place in the corner of the wall and the seat
in front. His head bobbed from the continued affront by his daughter; I could
tell he was still being pummeled.

As we continued to descend into
the New York area, I had thoughts of, 'what if he hurts her? What if he reaches
his limit and stuffs a sock in her mouth?' I looked back and he had returned to
his center seat and again struggled to place her in her seat belt. He soon gave
up, and amid her shouts he simply held her as close to him as he could, all the
while, she struggled to free herself and attempt to beat him, still screaming to
be let go.

About a minute before touching
down, I saw a few heads turn. Passengers in front were looking back, passengers
behind were looking around and forward. Up to this point, Dad seemed to think
that if he didn't look at anyone, no one would notice them. But he was now
looking around and centered his gaze at someone just behind him who I couldn't
see.

I heard him demand, “What are
you laughing at? You think this is funny?” Um, well...

I was this close to picking up
the microphone and letting him know that I would not be having any of that on my
plane. But I realized this man was a hero up to this point in dealing with the
meltdown, and it was amazing that he had not had his own meltdown before now.
With his little girl continuing her rampage and screams, and with the plane just
above the treetops, I continued to observe.

Dad stayed in his seat after
the door opened and the passengers filed into the early morning of Newark's
Liberty Airport. Many smiled and rolled their eyes at me as they left, and as
the passengers came from further and further behind row 10, I realized that this
girl's meltdown was louder than maybe I thought, as everyone seemed relieved to
be leaving the monster behind. And where most children sober up at this point,
hers was still going!

There was a lull in people
leaving and the dad took the opportunity to make his way off the plane. In one
arm was the demon child from his loins. In the other was his carry-on bags. I
noticed her little pink flip-flops on her delicate feet, which, as she reached
the door, she began to kick and they went flying in two directions. The nice
woman behind them bent down to pick them up for him. He only got about 10 feet
inside the jet bridge when he had to put her down, take possession of the shoes
she'd kicked off and readjust, while still trying to calm his girl down.

At this point, the little girl
was pointing back at the plane yelling that she wanted to go back. I was
thinking, “Oh, hell no, you're not getting back on 'this' plane!”

When my two flying partners
reached the galley area, I quickly debriefed them of the goings on just before
touchdown. They could hear her screams all the way in the back, but didn't hear
him yell. It was so sad and I felt badly for the father and girl.

The three of us made our way
into the terminal to meet our hotel van. It had been a long night and we were
ready for sleep. There were a gaggle of passengers ready to board the plane we
had just brought in from San Francisco, but the next gate was vacant. There was
meltdown girl, still with the tantrum, some 40 minutes after it had begun, and
Dad, seated next to the window, as far away from others as possible, hair a now
a mess, trying to reel her in. He had a hold of her, but she soon broke free and
started away from him. I looked back and the last thing I saw was this little
girl with beautiful blond hair, grabbing stanchions and tossing them to the
floor like some lavender-shirted Godzilla letting lose on a city. I've never
felt so bad for a parent. I've never been more sure of not wanting children of
my own!